


Let Me Make It Clear

by fakeplantmaster



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Don't copy to another site, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Hurt and comfort, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, Post-Canon, end-of-canon, lots of them - Freeform, seems like there's a major character death in ch 3 but it's not real, they're married even though they're not (yet)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 01:56:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20024659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fakeplantmaster/pseuds/fakeplantmaster
Summary: Three times they meant ‘I love you’ and one time they actually said it.





	1. To The World

**Author's Note:**

> I love the concept of saying 'I love you' in ways other than outright, through actions or saying other things. The first chapter's a bit of a prologue since we all know they meant 'I love you' when they said 'to the world.' The first two chapters will be G-rated, and the next two will be T, the first for non-graphic violence and the second for mild sexual content. Thank you so much for reading!

The weather had quite improved since the world had decidedly not come to an end. That had been scarcely a day ago, and now a certain nightingale was readying its song in one Berkeley Square. A sigh lingered, easy and unrestrained, on the breeze that swept stray leaves up into the golden evening light.

Mirthful chatter and soft piano music filled the hall of the Ritz. Chandeliers glowed overhead, each casting its own halo of light over servers and patrons alike. Aziraphale and Crowley sat close to each other at their table. The angel held himself upright and the demon reclined, each as he always had, but they seemed to each other to be more relaxed and content than they had been in a long time.

“Cheers.” Crowley’s tone was sincere as he looked over at Aziraphale and held his glass across the table. “To the world.”

The angel beamed, his voice impossibly full of love. “To the _world_.”


	2. It Made Me Think Of You

Crowley sat in his idling Bentley outside the bookshop, laying on the horn and shouting out the window. “Angel, come on! I’d have waited another half hour to come if I knew you’d be this long!”

Aziraphale finally emerged from the front door, looking perfectly put together and in no hurry whatsoever. He wore a pale blue collared shirt with the sleeves neatly cuffed at his elbows. His shirt was tucked into well-fitting tan trousers, which he wore with a belt. He carried an old leather tote bag over one shoulder and had draped his usual beige coat over his other arm.

Crowley ran his tongue over his teeth as Aziraphale turned to lock the door. Then he strode down the front steps and around to the passenger side. The demon’s tone was mocking as he sat down and closed the door. “Are you sure you didn’t forget anything, angel, having left in such a rush?”

Aziraphale gave an exasperated click of his tongue as he pulled the seatbelt across his lap. “Thank you for being such a dear to pick me up.”

Crowley pulled away from the curb and looked Aziraphale over. He continued to prod playfully. “Rolled-up sleeves? Rather scandalous for an angel.”

Color rose in Aziraphale’s cheeks as he glanced at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. “Oh, do lay off. You said it yourself, I’m not on Heaven’s side anymore so I can do what I want. Including roll my up my sleeves to stay cool in this weather.”

Crowley elected to skip over that first part. More than his current emotional capacity could handle. He raised an eyebrow instead. “This weather? Angel, this weather is fifteen degrees and overcast.”

Aziraphale looked straight ahead and pursed his lips. “It was warmer earlier today.”

“Whatever you say.” Crowley grinned.

“And besides,” the angel insisted, “since we’re only going to your flat for drinks, I figured I could afford to dress down a bit.”

“Sure.” Crowley did not voice his immediate thought regarding Aziraphale and dressing down. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the car in front of them as he inched the Bentley forward in the long line of cars.

“Why does it always take so long to get past this intersection?” Aziraphale huffed. “Seems to take forever to get anywhere in London by car these days.”

“Beats me,” said Crowley, who remembered quite vividly his then-brilliant scheme back in the eighties to offset a significant number of London’s traffic signals so they never turned green in a convenient order.

Aziraphale exhaled in irritation and looked out the passenger side window. Crowley leaned his arms on the steering wheel and looked up through the windshield, scrunching his nose. “Looks like a storm’s on its way.”

Aziraphale leaned forward to look up too. “I believe so,” he said, “but I read in the paper it’s not supposed to start for three or four days.”

The demon cast him an incredulous glance. “You read the paper?”

“Just a local one,” he replied briskly. “I like to keep up with the goings-on in Soho. In case there are any new restaurants or plays that open.”

“Didn’t know keeping up was your style.”

The angel replied with a tetchy glance.

After a few minutes of prickly silence, Crowley pulled the Bentley along the curb in front of his building.

“It’s this one right here.” He strode around the front of the car and pointed behind Aziraphale. He glanced down at the tote bag the angel carried. “Can I get that for you?”

Aziraphale quickly pulled the bag in close to his body. “Oh no, it’s alright, dear, I’ve got it, not to worry.” Crowley raised an eyebrow and he sighed. “It’s just—I brought a special bottle of wine to open tonight and I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Crowley opened his mouth and had a fair bit of trouble replying for several moments. He busied himself with entering the front door code, finally managing, “What—what’s special about tonight?”

Aziraphale entered behind him as he held the door. “Do we need an excuse, my dear? I suppose we could say we helped avert the apocalypse a couple days ago, and an opportunity like that only comes every few thousand years.”

“I, uh—yeah,” Crowley replied intelligently. He led Aziraphale up the stairs and jerked his head toward one of the doors. “It’s the one on the right,” he mumbled, fumbling for the right key.

When he opened the door for Aziraphale, the angel made an impressed noise. “Very classy, dear.” He entered slowly, looking high and low, taking in the feel of the flat. “A bit, ah, subdued. Oh, I like this stone eagle.” He paused. “Hang on, isn’t this—?”

He felt a rush of wind blow past him and suddenly Crowley was at the far end of the hall and through the living room, heading into the kitchen. Aziraphale called down the hall in confusion. “Crowley?”

“Getting drinks!” came the reply.

Aziraphale knit his brow and opened his mouth to protest. “But I have the wine with me here.”

The sound of a glass breaking echoed down the hall. “Dear?” Aziraphale’s voice rose as he hurried down the hall. “Is everything alright?”

He entered the kitchen to see two perfectly whole wine glasses and one very red-faced demon. “Yeah, I’m fine, angel, everything’s fine. What’d you bring?”

Aziraphale gave a nod and pulled a bottle of red wine out of his bag. “It’s a Chateau Valandraud, supposed to be one of the best years. I’ve had it since the twenties, I believe, was gifted it from a dear friend.”

“Oh? Which friend would that be?” Crowley leaned on the counter, his eyes fixed on the angel.

“It was Claude Cahun, if you must know. They gave me that bottle at one of their artists’ salons in 1923. Now where’s your corkscrew?”

Crowley smiled almost warmly, half to himself, as he crossed the kitchen and pulled the silver spiral from a drawer.

They emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, each with a full glass and a good mood. Aziraphale set his bag against one end of the sofa and sat on the cushion closest to it. Crowley draped himself on a black leather chair across from the angel. He folded his dark glasses and set them on the coffee table between them, a move he regretted moments later.

Aziraphale swirled the wine in his glass and smiled archly. “I don’t believe I got a chance to ask about your eagle statue in the entryway. Where _ever_ did you get it?”

Crowley felt exposed, fighting the instinct to make an excuse and run back to the kitchen. Instead he twisted his legs around each other anxiously and searched for a careful reply. It was clear Aziraphale already knew, so there was no point in running. And besides, he knew it was a risk he took by inviting Aziraphale to his flat. “London, 1941. From that bombed-out church. I thought it’d make a nice statement piece.”

“ _Statement piece_?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Solely for decoration, then?”

“Why else would I have kept it?” Crowley smirked, managing to keep his voice cool. “Why the fascination with that statue, angel?”

“You tell me.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley over his glass as he took a sip.

“Really, I thought it’d be nice to commemorate one of the more recent times I saved your arse from inconvenient discorporation. Why, was that evening significant to you somehow?”

Aziraphale’s expression was masked. “Only in that I wasn’t inconveniently discorporated.” He looked down into his lap, adding, “And that my books of prophecy made it out in one piece.”

Crowley softened, lost momentarily staring at Aziraphale. He looked away quickly when the angel raised his head.

“Anyway”—Aziraphale gave a pained smile—“how was your day today? What did you do?”

“It was fine.” Crowley took an even breath to slow his racing heart. “Felt too normal to be a couple days after the world almost ended. I drove to Reading just for the hel—just because. And repotted a plant that had grown too large.”

“Sounds lovely,” said Aziraphale. “That reminds me—” He drew around the arm of the sofa to his tote bag. Carefully reaching inside, he continued with a rambling lilt, “I was shopping in Soho earlier today and stopped in that new garden shop on Old Compton. Very cute little place, nice assortment of plants and such. Had a lovely conversation with the owner. Apparently Little Shop of Horrors is playing at Prince Edward Theater—his husband is starring as Seymour. I think you’d like Little Shop of Horrors; it’s playing until March. Anyway”—he pulled out a small flower pot—“the owner said this is called a snake plant, and it made me think of you.” He held it out for Crowley, who took it, but not without a strange wary look in his eyes.

Crowley cleared his throat and spoke as evenly as he could, simultaneously touched and uneasy. “Thanks—thank you, angel, ‘ts appreciated.”

Aziraphale kept his gaze fixed on Crowley’s. “Are you quite alright? You seem, ah, resistant.”

“I’m fine, angel,” Crowley grunted. “I’m really grateful, I am, just feel a bit strange. Offput all of a sudden.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I wonder if it’s something about the plant. Do you have an encyclopedia of horticulture I could see?”

Crowley bit back a laugh and set the plant on the table. “I’m not big on books, but there’s always the internet.”

The angel pursed his lips and leaned to pick up Crowley’s phone where it lay on the far edge of the coffee table. “Do remind me, how does one search the internet?”

Crowley smirked. “Hold down the button at the bottom.”

Aziraphale obeyed and the phone’s Siri function chimed readily. He cleared his throat. “Ah—hello. I was just wondering, um, from where does the snake plant get its name?”

Siri read the top result robotically. “Sansevieria trifasciata is called the snake plant for its resemblance to snakes. Snakes are sometimes repelled by snake plants due to this resemblance and the sharpness of the plant’s leaves.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale laughed shortly, placing the phone back on the table. “That would explain it. I’m so sorry, dear, I’ll just return it to the shop—” He reached out toward where the plant sat on the table between them but Crowley snatched it away.

“Absolutely not, I’m keeping it and I’ll learn to like it.” He turned the plant around in his hands, eyeing it warily, and then turned his gaze up to meet Aziraphale’s. “Thank you, angel. I mean it.”

Aziraphale exhaled and his eyes softened. “You’re quite welcome, my dear.” He rose to his feet and looked around pointedly. “Where in your flat is it going to live?”

Crowley drew himself up with the baby plant in hand and teetered over to his desk. He placed the plant on the corner next to a small decorative globe. “Here’s good, you think?”

“Perfect.” Aziraphale had wandered back toward the entryway and his voice carried through the flat. “Oh, I like the white flowery bits on this one. What’s it called?”

Crowley followed the angel’s voice and came to stand beside him. “Peace lily.”

Aziraphale smiled. “How nice. What about that one?” He motioned toward a small plant with spindly leaves that sat on a pedestal down the hall.

They walked over to the pedestal and Crowley leaned over the plant, inspecting it. “It’s a spider plant,” he said, “and it’s my newest—well, was until just now—so it hasn’t yet learned its place.” He bared his teeth at the plant. “But it will.”

Aziraphale shot a nervous glance at the demon. “Crowley, you mustn’t be cruel to your plants! I’m sure they’re doing their best.” He turned toward the living room and continued, “I do hope I haven’t condemned that snake plant to some unspeakable terror.”

Crowley grinned. “Angel, you have no idea.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips disapprovingly and turned his gaze to a succulent on a narrow table where the hallway met the living room. “What’s this one?”

The demon’s voice was measured. “I believe it’s called a tree of love.”

“Oh! What a nice name for a cute little plant.” Aziraphale leaned down toward the plant as one might lean in to fawn over a baby in a pram. “And it’s growing so well!”

“You’re undermining my authority,” Crowley said through gritted teeth.

“Nonsense, my dear.” Aziraphale stood up again and turned toward the larger plants that stood by tall windows. “I’m sure it’ll take more effort on my part over a longer period to do that. Now what’s this one called?”

Crowley rolled his eyes but his heart fluttered at the implication of longer period. “Fiddle leaf fig.”

“And this one?”

Slowly they worked their way around the flat, from the living room past Crowley’s desk and into the kitchen. Finally they reached the doorway to the bedroom and Aziraphale entered without a second thought, eagerly looking around the room for more plants.

Crowley followed him, unable to delay the inevitable.

Aziraphale stopped by the window, where two plants rested on the sill. “What’s this one called?” He pointed to the plant on the right, a tangle of heart-shaped leaves on vines that dangled off the window sill and twined into and around the other plant’s stalks.

Crowley winced inwardly. “That one’s called pothos.”

Aziraphale’s face lit up in recognition. “Devil’s ivy! I’ve heard of that.”

The demon nodded, his lips pressed tight.

“And the other?”

Crowley inhaled sharply. “Angel wing begonia.”

Something more than recognition passed through Aziraphale’s gaze and he nodded once. “That’s lovely, dear.”

They made their way back out to the living room and cleaned up the empty wine glasses. Crowley emerged from the kitchen yawning. “I’m gonna get some sleep, angel. I haven’t had so much as a nap in months and stopping the apocalypse was exhausting.”

Aziraphale glanced toward the hallway awkwardly. “Then I suppose I should be going, let you get some rest—”

“N—no,” Crowley said quickly, kicking himself for not leading with an invitation. “I mean, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” His voice trailed down almost to a whisper. “You’re more than welcome to stay as long as you like.”

A smile spread across the angel’s face. “Alright, then, I’ll stay for a bit. I just bought a new book today and happened to bring it along.”

Crowley’s chest felt tight. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his face neutral. “In that case, would you like some biscuits or something?”

“I—I would love some, dear.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t know you liked biscuits.”

Crowley tried to look indifferent. “I don’t, but I was at the store a few days ago and remembered those ones you keep in the Bentley and figured I should have some here too.”

Aziraphale beamed at him and then a coyly suspicious look entered his eyes. “Since when do you go to the store?”

Crowley coughed. “I’ll get your biscuits then.” He hurried into the kitchen away from the obvious conclusion.

A minute later he returned carrying a black saucer with three chocolate-dipped shortbread squares. Aziraphale had seated himself on one end of the sofa and was thumbing through a book on his lap. Crowley handed him the saucer. “I left the box on the counter if you want any more.”

The angel looked up at him with wide eyes. “Thank you, darling, these look wonderful.” He set the saucer on the table in front of him and held up the book excitedly. “I’m so excited to read this new book, _Coraline_. Normally I wouldn’t go for something published so recently but I’ve heard it’s really quite good.” He wiggled his fingers for effect. “Supposed to be rather spooky.”

Crowley couldn’t hold back a smile. “Don’t scare yourself too much, angel. I’ll be in the other room if you need anything.” He turned and strolled back to his bedroom, closing the door behind him slowly and catching one last glimpse of Aziraphale curled up on the sofa, book in hand and saucer balanced on his knee.


	3. Don't Leave Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning: there's a description of a major character death in this chapter but it's not real and doesn't actually happen. I went off the idea of Crowley's past trauma manifesting in his dreams. Angst-heavy chapter with v soft comfort at the end.

Crowley’s wrists ached against the white rope constricting them. His feet burned in his shoes as he stood on tiptoe, trapped and shifting his weight back and forth in a ring of sigils. Across the circular room, Aziraphale hung by his wrists, which were bound together by a chain that ran up into the high ceiling. His feet barely touched the ground but he did not seem conscious enough to fight for balance, instead letting his full weight hang from the chain. His chin rested against his chest as he swayed slightly. He was wearing the same clothes he had worn for a hundred and eighty years, except his outer coat, which lay on the floor a few paces away. Crowley noticed his glasses laying on the coat. One of the lenses was shattered.

Crowley was about to call out to him when a richly cold voice sounded to his left. “Aziraphale. Everyone’s favorite not-yet-fallen angel. Glad we found you before you could make a bigger fool of us and yourself.” Gabriel strode across the room to where Aziraphale hung, coat swishing side to side and shoes clacking on the floor. Aziraphale seemed to come to at the sound of Gabriel’s voice. His gaze met the archangel’s as he twisted his body for balance in vain. Gabriel smiled icily. “It’s time you stopped being a thorn in our side once and for all. We figured this would do the trick.” He waved a hand toward the door and in strode Hastur, carrying an orange flame cupped in his hands. Gabriel snapped his fingers and a sword materialized in his grip. _Aziraphale’s sword,_ Crowley realized. _How did he get that?_

Gabriel handed the blade to Hastur, who brought the fire to its edges and let it ignite. Gabriel took an instinctive step backward but maintained his haughty composure. “And our wily little demon friend is going to have the honor of ending you.”

His gaze swung round to Crowley against the far wall. Crowley felt his heart drop into his stomach. _No_.

Gabriel’s gloating smile widened as he approached Crowley with long, leisurely paces and Hastur in tow. “What better way to punish you both at the same time?”

Crowley strained against the rope and hissed in helpless frustration. The burning at his feet dulled to an ache and he spat in Gabriel’s direction. “When I get out—”

“Yeah, yeah.” Gabriel waved his hand and Crowley’s mouth snapped shut. The ropes fell from his wrists and the sigils disappeared. Gabriel nodded to Hastur and jerked his thumb back toward Crowley. Hastur stepped forward and handed him the flaming sword. A sneering smile spread across his face and he clicked his tongue. “Crowley. Crowley, Crowley. Can’t believe what you’ve gotten yourself into. Going to be just _terrible_ to watch.”

Crowley could do nothing but take the sword, glaring daggers and hoping his wishes for a painful death for Hastur were conveyed. Gabriel raised his eyebrows expectantly and motioned toward Aziraphale. “Get on with it, then.”

Crowley fought every bone and muscle in his body as they lurched in unison toward the angel across the room. Aziraphale called out, his voice strained and growing frantic. “Crowley, please, dear, you don’t have to do this, please fight it—”

The room stretched longer and time slowed as he neared Aziraphale. In vain he struggled as hard as he could to stop his body, slow his pace, avoid the unavoidable. He reached Aziraphale and looked down into panicked blue eyes. He felt his arm bring the sword up, resting the tip against the center of Aziraphale’s chest. Flames licked up his waistcoat. The angel’s voice was desperate. “Don’t do this, please, Crowley.”

Crowley could not speak, could not move his feet, could do nothing but draw back the sword and plunge it through the chest of the only being in the damned universe he had ever loved, who had shown him true kindness, the only one around whom he felt safe. A choked gasp was cut short in Aziraphale’s throat and the radiance behind his eyes faded to a dull sheen.

“Aziraphale! NO!” Crowley regained his voice and screamed in futility. Screamed at himself for letting this happen, for not fighting harder. Screamed at Gabriel and Hastur and the Almighty Herself for taking his angel away from him. Screamed at no one in particular, screamed until there was nothing left but his own hoarse voice ripping his throat.

He sat up sharply, blankets gathered around his waist. Aziraphale was silhouetted in the doorway. “Crowley? Are you alright, dear?”

Crowley was too tired for words and too distraught for emotional barriers. He keeled forward and began to sob into his hands. Aziraphale gasped softly and crossed the room in a heartbeat, sitting on the edge of the bed by Crowley’s knee. He put a hand on the blanketed outline of Crowley’s thigh. “What happened?”

Sobs continued to rack Crowley’s body and he did not look up. Finally he took a deep trembling breath and whispered, “Nightmare.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale gave a slow nod and moved his thumb against Crowley’s thigh in an effort to comfort him. Finally Crowley sat up halfway and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes before meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. Aziraphale looked back at him with as much kindness as he could muster, and it seemed to calm Crowley a little.

Crowley’s voice was thin. “I dreamt that Gabri—that angel”—he stopped himself on the off-chance saying the archangel’s name would draw his attention—“he—he’d known about our plan to swap bodies—and he caught us before we could and—” He broke off into sobs again.

Aziraphale shifted forward, placing a hand between the demon’s shoulderblades and rubbing in small circles.

“And Hastur was there.” Crowley took a ragged breath. “He’d brought hellfire and he lit up your sword with it—and—and gave it to me and I couldn’t not”—he fought back another sob—“I couldn’t control my body and I was made to stab you—”

Without thinking he crooked his arms around Aziraphale’s neck and buried his face in the angel’s shoulder. “I saw the light leave your eyes and you were _gone_ ,” he rasped, breaking into unrestrained wails.

He felt Aziraphale’s arms close around him as he pulled Crowley closer, his chin coming to rest on the demon’s bowed head. “Oh, Crowley, my dear, that sounds terrible. I’m so sorry you had that dream. It’s just you and me here and I won’t let anything happen to either of us. You’re alright, you’re safe.”

He held Crowley for several long minutes until the demon’s sobs subsided into shuddering breaths. Finally Crowley relaxed and loosened his grip around Aziraphale. The angel ran a hand over Crowley’s hair and began to stand, but Crowley tensed again. “Don’t leave me,” he said in a tiny voice, his gaze fixed downward.

Aziraphale quickly sat back down, this time scooting further onto the bed next to Crowley. He wrapped his demon in his arms again and ran a hand over his cheek, wiping the tears away. “My darling, I will never leave you.”


	4. I Love You

Rain pounded against Crowley’s back as he approached Aziraphale’s bookshop. The forecasted storm had come with a vengeance, making life in London feel like it hadn’t almost ended last week. Crowley shivered and twisted the front doorknob, ignoring the ‘closed’ sign as he always did. A bell jingled as he pushed the door open and hurried inside, careful to wipe his shoes on the doormat and remove his jacket in such a way that as little rainwater fell to the floor as possible. A harried voice rose from the back of the shop. “Sorry, we’re closed today, rain and all that!”

“Angel, it’s me!” Crowley called back, smiling inwardly. He traipsed toward Aziraphale’s voice, pulling his glasses from his face to wipe them on his shirt. Glancing around the shop, he was struck by the sheer number of books that lay around in haphazard piles and stacks. He set his glasses on Aziraphale’s desk as he strolled by and raised his voice slightly as he neared the angel. “Aziraphale? ’S everything okay? Need any help?”

Aziraphale’s head appeared above a tall stack of leather-bound books. His hair was not in its usual angelic curls but rather was a frazzled mess of white-blond tufts. “Ah, Crowley! So nice to see you. You must forgive me, I’m taking inventory and I can’t seem to find a very special book I was gifted from Alfred Edward Housman.” He crouched down again and resumed transferring books from one stack to another, turning each over in his hands before placing it down. “What brings you in?” he asked distractedly.

Seeing that Aziraphale was fixed on his books and therefore unlikely to glance up, Crowley allowed himself a wider smile and shook his head to himself. “After all this time, do I really need a reason for every visit, angel? And by the way,” he laughed, “why’s the door unlocked if the shop’s supposed to be closed? Isn’t that the point of it being closed, keeping people out? And to keep demons out, Go—someone forbid one of _those_ gets in.”

“Must have slipped my mind.” Aziraphale barely glanced at Crowley as he hurried past him, arms full of books. He disappeared behind another bookcase and Crowley heard a grunt and a soft thud as the angel set down the heavy stack. He frowned as Aziraphale pushed past him again. “Angel, it looks as though you’ve been at this for weeks. And I was here day before yesterday so I know you did all this in a day and a half. Have you taken any breaks? Sat down and put your feet up for fifteen minutes, even?”

“Haven’t,” Aziraphale grunted, carrying another teetering stack of books past Crowley. His strained voice carried across the shop. “No time, I’ve got to do inventory every year and it’s always awful so I’m doing it quick as I can. And I wouldn’t be having so much trouble,” he huffed, “if I could just find this damned book. I’ve been searching all afternoon and can’t seem to—”

He turned a corner too fast and his coat caught on the edge of a particularly tall book stack. Crowley was there in a split-second and caught the stack just before it toppled. The book on top of the stack didn’t quite make it back up with the rest and slid off, hitting Crowley’s shoulder as he ducked his head aside. He winced at the dull jab.

Aziraphale yelped as the book hit the floor and fell open. He scooped it up as though it were a baby bird fallen from its nest and gasped. “Crowley! This is it, _De_ _Amicitia_!” He held up the book for emphasis and smiled gratefully at Crowley. The demon looked bemused as he rubbed his shoulder.

“You know,” Aziraphale said as he turned toward the back of the shop, “Alfred had this essay of his specially printed and bound for me in 1932, even though it wasn’t formally published until 1967.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow and replied pointedly, “And how’d you manage that?”

Aziraphale threw an arch smile back over his shoulder. Crowley chucked to himself and muttered, “‘ _Of Friendship_ ,’ indeed.” Following after Aziraphale, he spoke up again. “Listen, angel, you really should take a break. You’re only going to trip or lose another book or something.”

“Am not,” Aziraphale argued, gaze scouring a shelf of books slightly above his eye level.

“You are.”

“Mm,” Aziraphale hummed absently.

“You—er—gk— _fine_ ,” Crowley huffed and turned on his heel, striding toward the narrow spiral staircase that led up to Aziraphale’s flat above the bookshop. Aziraphale cast a mildly curious glance after him and continued his task.

Crowley let his feet fall solidly on each metal step, his hand dragging up the rail. He’d only been up to Aziraphale’s flat a handful of times but he figured the angel was too absorbed in taking inventory to care in the least. And why should he care at all? He was just Aziraphale’s friend; it wasn’t like there was anything to read into, wasn’t like there could be anything more—

He shook his head and set himself to making Aziraphale a cup of tea. After rummaging in growing frustration through the cupboards for the angel’s favorite tea and burning himself twice on the kettle, he emerged at the top of the staircase with the full cup steaming on its saucer. He took the stairs slowly and brought the cup over to the well-worn armchair in the corner of the shop, setting it down next to a bookmarked copy of Jane Austen’s _Emma_. He grabbed the blanket that lay across the back of the chair and made his way back to Aziraphale.

Crowley waited until Aziraphale stood up empty-handed from a small stack of books, and then he pulled the blanket around the angel’s shoulders, steering him toward the armchair. “Come on, angel, I‘ve made an executive decision—you’re going to take the rest of the day off and get some rest.”

Aziraphale started to protest but stopped short when the chair came into view. “You made me tea?” he said softly.

“Yes, now please _sit_.” Crowley drew the blanket off the angel’s shoulders and made a sweeping motion toward the armchair.

Aziraphale picked up the teacup and sat. Crowley spread the blanket gently over his lap and stomach and handed him the copy of _Emma_. The angel took a breath and a sip of tea. A beaming smile spread across his face and he looked up at Crowley. “It’s perfect, dear, you know exactly how I like it.”

Crowley felt his breath catch in his throat. He cleared it but his voice was still rough. “Anytime, angel. You seemed so stressed and I thought…” He trailed off and waved his hand vaguely before turning to leave Aziraphale to his reading.

The angel’s gaze fell to the book in his lap and he opened it to the bookmark, continuing, “My darling, you must how I appreciate this. You’re always so good to me—it’s one of the many reasons I love you, and—”

Every fiber in Crowley’s body froze. He felt a fuse short out in his brain. He swayed on his feet and steadied himself against the edge of a bookcase. Aziraphale did not notice and set the bookmark aside, skimming his hand over the page. Sounds continued to emanate from his mouth, which, Crowley assumed, were meant to form words, but he could make out none of them through the roaring in his ears. Finally the angel looked up from the book and fell silent when his eyes met Crowley’s. His brow knit with worry. “Dear? Is something wrong?”

“Njk—n—no,” Crowley managed. “Y—y—you—lo—”

Suddenly Crowley was slumped on the floor against the bookcase, one leg bent close to him and the other splayed out awkwardly. “Y—lo—love—m—”

The concern in Aziraphale’s eyes was slowly replaced with adoration as Crowley stammered. He leaned forward to set down the cup and book before coming to kneel beside Crowley. He placed a soft hand on the demon’s cheek. “Are you alright, my dear? I only said I love you—”

Crowley sputtered. “B—but—y—you’ve never said it before.”

Aziraphale paused, disbelief crossing his face. “No, I’m sure I told you at some point, haven’t I?”

Crowley laughed weakly and brought his hand up to cover Aziraphale’s. “Angel, d’you think I’d be on the floor if you had?”

Aziraphale blushed deeply and chuckled. “I suppose not,” he sighed, drawing his fingers away from Crowley’s cheek and folding the demon’s hand between his own. “Then let me make it as clear to you as I can. I love you, Crowley. I love you now”—he paused to place a delicate kiss across Crowley’s knuckles and Crowley felt himself nearly black out—“and I have loved you for many thousands of years”—another kiss—“and I’m sorry it has taken me all this time”—and another—“to realize it and accept it and tell you”—and another—“but now I’m sure of it and I would do anything for you, my love.” He placed a final kiss and cast his eyes up to meet Crowley’s. “And the last thing I want is for you to feel obligated to say it back, so if this is too much for you, say the word and I’ll drop it.”

Crowley’s heart thundered in his chest, threatening to run away without him. He held Aziraphale’s gaze silently for several long moments, his mouth open slightly. Television static buzzed across his brain as he willed it to cooperate. Concern crept back into Aziraphale’s eyes, followed swiftly by disappointment. “I understand,” he exhaled, releasing Crowley’s hand and retreating back. “I’m sorry, I’ll just—”

“N—NO—no,” Crowley finally managed, his brain coming back online. His hands shot out and grabbed Aziraphale’s. “I—I love you too, angel.” He let out a long sigh. “I’ve loved you for—well, since you told me you’d given your sword to Eve.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened slightly. “Really?”

Crowley smirked. “I’ve loved you for longer.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he said in a voice lacking any real irritation. His thumb rubbed small circles on the back of Crowley’s hand and he murmured at last, “At least we’re on the same page now.”

Crowley looked up from where his hands were clasped in Aziraphale’s and the corner of his mouth turned up. “It would seem so.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked down to Crowley’s mouth and back up. The demon held his gaze but did not move. Aziraphale leaned forward at a glacial speed until his nose was a centimeter from Crowley’s. He paused, gaze flicking down again. Crowley rolled his eyes. “For someone’s sake,” he said and closed the gap, slotting his lips between Aziraphale’s and bringing his hands up to cup the angel’s cheeks. Aziraphale inhaled sharply, tensing only for a moment before melting into Crowley’s hands. Crowley leaned back, pulling Aziraphale with him until the angel was nearly seated in his lap. Their teeth clinked together as they kissed with growing desperation, the floodgates thrown wide open. Six thousand years of shared smiles, loving sidelong glances, inside jokes, long drunken conversations, and thinly concealed want tumbled between their shared breath as hands tangled in hair and slid up and down faces and necks and chests and backs.

Crowley’s mouth trailed down Aziraphale’s neck as he worked his hands under the angel’s many layers. His hands ran over Aziraphale’s soft stomach around to his back and he sucked gently on the angel’s collarbone, eliciting a soft moan as he felt Aziraphale’s hand take a fistful of his hair. “Dearest,” Aziraphale gasped, “at least take me to dinner first.”

Crowley sucked harder, leaving a deep purple bruise. Aziraphale stifled a louder moan and Crowley growled. “How about breakfast?”

Aziraphale hummed and caught Crowley’s chin, bringing the demon’s mouth up to meet his own. He smiled mischievously into the kiss. “In that case, what would you say to some crepes?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all! Thank you so much for reading and leaving kudos!! You can find me on tumblr @ show-me-a-great-plan :)


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